


Your shadow weighs a ton

by girlyjuice



Category: The OC (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Biphobia, Classism, F/F, F/M, Heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlyjuice/pseuds/girlyjuice
Summary: It's a regular night at the Bait Shop – except Alex is heartbroken over a pretty girl. And so is her first customer of the evening.
Relationships: Marissa Cooper/Alex Kelly, Marissa Cooper/DJ
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Your shadow weighs a ton

Alex could always tell when she was hung up on a girl by how long it took her to dry off glasses at the Bait Shop. On a normal, heartbreak-free day, she was a one-woman whirlwind with a bar towel, yanking highballs and martini glasses from the dishwasher with practiced aplomb, giving them a quick once-over to swipe away errant water droplets, and then replacing them on the glass rack above her.

Not so when a girl had ruined her heart. She could spend five or ten minutes – or a clockless, unmeasured eternity – staring into space while sliding the same towel around the same glass rim as if she planned on using it to serve Dom Perignon to the queen. As she snapped back into reality for the 5th time that shift, she knew she had to get real: it wasn’t a queen she was stressing over. It was a princess. A rich, pretty, privileged,  _ straight _ princess named Marissa fucking Cooper.

Alex never felt shattered like this over a guy, despite the galumphing presence of many throughout her sexual and romantic history. Hell, even the dirty-blonde beefcake Marissa’d  _ really  _ been in love with, the mysteriously monosyllabic Ryan Atwood, had piqued the interest of Alex’s genitals but had never grazed her heart, not even when they went on an awkward date that one time. She had no real affinity for men, no sympathy for them, save for the morose punk friends from high school she drank with on rowdy nights. And even  _ they _ had never made her cry. No one, in fact, had made her cry like Marissa.

But she couldn’t think about that now, not when there were cocktails to shake and customers to appease. It was early yet at the Bait Shop, dregs of daylight still poking in through the windows as the club staff busied themselves prepping for tonight’s Arcade Fire show. As of yet, actually, only one customer had sidled up to Alex’s bar – but she was a  _ professional _ , dammit, so she was going to serve the hell out of him, Marissa or no Marissa.

“Hey, what can I getcha?” she asked, shelving the glass she’d finally managed to dry off.

With some effort, the brawny dude lifted his big brown eyes from his phone – “No New Messages,” Alex noted, privately finding this very relatable – and shrugged. “A beer, if you have it.” He sounded like Eeyore, with an Orange County twang. Younger than her, but not by enough that it mattered.

“I sure do,” she shot back, and chose not to follow it up with a snide jab or a clarifying question. The guy looked so sad; the least she could do was be his beer sommelier. As she poured him a Speedway stout from the glinting taps, she decided to press her luck. “We celebrating anything tonight?”

He let out an audible burst of air that could have been mistaken for laughter by someone less clued-in to heartbreak than she. “Kinda the opposite, actually,” he replied, and slumped down even lower on his barstool. “I’m pissed off at a girl.”

Alex set down the deep brown pint in front of him and cocked an eyebrow. “Looks more like you’re  _ sad _ about a girl, champ,” she amended, gently. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

His doleful eyes flicked back up to hers. “Oh yeah? What happened to you?” He sipped at the foam while Alex mentally weighed the potential risks and benefits of opening up to this burly bro with the forlorn face.  _ Fuck it _ , she thought.  _ I’ve got nothing left to lose. _

“Oh, where to begin,” she mused, leaning against the backbar and crossing her arms in thought. “A pretty girl thought I was her toy and that bisexuality was her playground. She tried me out and threw me away. That basically sums it up.” Her bark of laughter could not have been more humorless if she’d tried.

The guy raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “Been there,” he said – and then, seeing her expression, “I mean, without the bisexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” This time, Alex laughed for real.

“Why, what happened to _you_?”

The kid’s eyes drifted skyward like he was searching for answers, but Alex had already tried that all afternoon and there was no new information to be found in the Bait Shop’s rafters. “Also a pretty girl,” he began. “Also thought I was her toy. Also threw me away.” He tossed back a mouthful of stout. “That, as you said, basically sums it up.”

Alex’s lips flattened into a hard line of sympathy. “Sucks, dude. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. She shrugged. He sipped his beer.

Alex could tell, from the guy’s faded jeans and scuffed workboots and dejected manner, that both of them came from the same place, “the wrong side of the tracks,” and that here in the O.C., the “tracks” were even broader and more divisive than they could be elsewhere. She knew this kid might never ascend to the level of goldenness these shrill Newpsies required of people they deigned to get involved with, romantically or otherwise. And she knew that about herself, too, which is why it almost hurt to look at him, hunched over his pint glass and staring into the swirls of foam like they could tell him his future.

“Listen,” she said, before she even knew what she was saying. “People like you and me? We’re better than them. All of them.” She gestured out toward the pier, the beach, the wealthy assholes. The guy’s eyes widened, but not in protest. “Most of them have never worked at a place like this, because they’ve never had to. Most of them have never had scars and callouses like you do, because they’ve never had to.” She’d had to pull herself back at the last moment from mentioning his bulging biceps, probably from construction work or yard work or pool maintenance, because, well, she had to maintain  _ some _ sense of professional decorum. Maybe later, though.

She cleared her throat, having lost some momentum in her secretly self-serving pep talk. “What I’m saying is, you don’t have to care about what they think. I know that’s easier said than done – believe me, I know – but you really don’t have to.”

He smiled at her a little, and then dropped his gaze back into his beer, both of them feeling awkward in the dwindling yet damning daylight. “You’re right,” he said softly. “Hey, what was your name again?” He extended a broad, tanned hand, and when Alex shook it, it was warm and steady.

“Alex,” she said.

“DJ,” he said.

She laughed. “Well, we’re not hiring a DJ right now, DJ,” she jibed, “but you can come back any time as a customer. Especially if you want to commiserate more about the heartbreaking, ball-busting, life-ruining women of the O.C.”

“I’m sure I will,” DJ said, and his smile was small but it seemed like it could be the start of something big.


End file.
